World War III  The Inside
by wretchedheartbreak
Summary: Based on Yumi-Tsubato's fic, "World War III", this drabble provides insight of the major players of a World War III. It does not entirely depict the original fic, but most elements have been kept.


**Lessee... before we start, I'd like to say that this was inspired by Yumi-Tsubato's fanfic, World War III. I understand that the intentions may be different than the original story, but otherwise I kept it as closely knit as possible.**

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><p>The cocking sound of a gun resounds in the air. The silence in the air is palpable, so thick that the sharpest blade in existence would easily bend its will. It is unmoving… unrelenting.<p>

"Get out." It comes, a barely audible sound that dances in the dead of the moonlit twilight. It is a whisper, as his voice always was and will be, muffled by the murmuring breeze. His indigo eyes stare at the man across the imaginary line, that long-standing undefended border that kept them allied… but also separated.

Today, it would separate. He knows it is a long thing coming.

Within his voice lurks long-standing contempt, as though years of oppressed rage have finally been released.

"Why are you doing this?" A voice, more muted than his own, inquires. The tone is laced with unmistakeable regret, confusion, irritation, anger, and so much more. Vivid cerulean eyes make eye contact, unflinching.

He cannot fathom this situation. He cannot comprehend why he now stood there, coated in a bloodied military outfit, his own gun cocked and poised at the opposing male.

"Are you my brother?" Canada asks, his own gaze frigid, his tone frozen. He does not know why he asked it, but it is the only way for him to reason with the absurdly stubborn male.

"Yes."

"Then you should know." He seethes, bathing in the anger that has now overcome him. He wants to kill, wants to dominate; he wants to end it. He will make a name for himself, even if it should be at the cost of his own flesh and blood. Family was nothing in the world of teetering nations and falling empires.

Talk is useless. Talk is unnecessary. Talk is saved only for the losing party.

And he most definitely would not lose. Not this time.

"I don't get it." America taps his foot impatiently. If not for the gun he has aimed at the other's chest, he would be crossing his arms. But lowering his guard was not an option.

"Of course not." Canada takes a step forward, anger blazing from his very aura. "I knew you wouldn't."

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><p><strong>Canada.<strong>

He doesn't know why he did it. If it could be called a "sudden urge", then that was what it was. But something tugged at his heart, something not quite right.

He lay on his bed that night, tossing and turning. He was contemplating. Had that been the right choice? He could see no other way fit; it was only at the promise of violence and bloodshed, at the possibility of life endangerment could he ever drill through that stubborn brother's head.

But he had to question himself again: had it been necessary?

He had not been oppressed. He had gained his independence from Britain. He had set up his own government. But it hadn't been perfect. As with life, nothing ever is.

He had been invaded time and time again. It hurt the most when America had been at the offensive end, but he had later dismissed that as nothing more than a misinformed whim. They had become allies in the end, and that was what counted. He would not have to look farther for the peace he sought in his own country.

Why then, was he so eager to throw that away?

No. It was not a sudden urge, not anymore. Running through his memories, he had seen this a long time coming.

Overshadowed by the brother he loved, paling in military power by his neighbour, and often overlooked by his very best friend. Whatever self-esteem he possessed had been slowly chipped away bit by bit, piece by aching piece.

No. He shook his head, glaring at the torn picture of the brothers, thoughts of malice thrown at the picturesque view.

This would have to happen. He had to regain his pride.

He refused to be invisible any longer.

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><p><strong>America.<strong>

He munched on his hamburger and blanched. It was not a normal occurrence; the day that the oily delicacy ever lost his intrigue was a sure sign of the apocalypse.

It might as well have been.

What had possessed his own kin to take up arms against him? The question rolled in his mind like a stubborn top, ever-present, ever-spinning… but ever mysterious.

A declaration of war had been made against him, against him by the one whom he shared the North American border with. He was paranoid. He knew this. He was paranoid towards European-based attacks. He was paranoid towards Asian based attacks. But he, no doubt, was most suspicious of a Russian-based attack.

Even England could very well turn his back on him, but he considered that unlikely. Even Japan could relive its cities' bombardments and conspire against him.

But he hadn't considered an attack from the region up north. That was his own backyard, for Pete's fucking sake (excuse his language). This was no laughing matter.

But somehow, he found it funny. He had.

An attack from Canada could not be taken seriously. He was not only partial to their military strength, but also to its deceptive lies. They had pacts. They had agreements. The roar of war was nothing more than a passing phase.

He was certain of it. He knew Canada, did he not? His sibling was not the violent type; resorting to violence was something he could proudly rise to. It was reserved only for him.

The burger now even looked unappetizing. He blanched and blamed the eatery itself for producing such a heinous excuse for food. He shook his head and placed it back on the tray.

Then he thought better of it. He might as well finish it.

Yes, this was all nothing but a temporary phase.

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><p><strong>England<strong>

The worst had come to worst; no, it was still to come. They had not crossed arms yet, but it would be soon.

Much, much too soon.

He groaned, pale hands fervently and violently shaking through his blonde hair. An angry cry escaped his lips, and his arm shot out, flinging the papers on his desk every which way. He merely blinked at the crumpled mess, before groaning and slamming his forehead on the wooden desk with an audible thud.

It was the apocalypse he had hoped never would come. It was the one wish, if any of his could be granted, that he vehemently wished granted.

But it had failed. World War III now loomed in a short day's time.

The system of alliances paralyzed him. Contemplate, he had to contemplate. It was all he had to do, it was all he could do at the present time. For in a short distance ahead, he would be once again pulled into ruthless carnage he had sworn to never face again.

America. A cold feeling crept through his veins, freezing his heart at the mere mention of the name. Feelings of longing clawed him from the inside out, his heart palpitating at speeds not considered safe or normal. He loved the nation. He loved the country that raised its guns and swords against him. He loved the place that had stolen his heart and had torn it up into dilapidated pieces.

Canada. A feeling of sorrow graced him. He had not been rightly just to the invisible nation. He had fathered his sibling more often than the purple-eyed child that had been taken away from his father. He knew that he deserved more than that, but it had been in his country's best interests. But despite emotional abuse, the child had clung to him all this time. It had not torn his heart asunder. It had not become disloyal. It had not set him on fire with pain.

Therein, he had only one choice.

He hoped it was the right one.

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><p><strong>France.<strong>

The Eiffel Tower had lost its shine. He had never once thought to himself that he would acknowledge such a blasphemous thing about himself, but he had.

Surely, things were not boding well.

Thoughts muddled, he stood atop the tower, staring off into the distance. To reclaim what had been lost, to pay back an overdue debt. Were those valid reasons?

He would like to think so.

But then again, he had never thought his actions through. Such a thing would not start now.

Still, it had come as a shock to find out that his own son had raised arms against a superpower. It was a fleeting thing, but there had been shock. There had been concern. But most of all, there had been exasperation.

He, both Canada and himself, were small countries. No, it was not such an artificial thing as land mass or population size. Rather, it was in terms of the currency of which the world talked: military might.

How long had it been since he had fought England, only to come begging back for assistance? How long had it been since such a domineering country had fallen so low so as to forge alliances so as to secure its own borders? How long had it been since the talk of "French domination" was a vocabulary word for children?

He had fallen. He would never admit it, but he had fallen. He was scoffed at, and they were right.

He had fallen.

Why then, had he pulled himself into a war of which could have been easily avoided?

It was because he knew of the pain of a diminishing empire. He had experienced the great fall. He had known the tedious steps that needed to be undergone to return to the top.

He had known the pain.

Canada was his son. His beloved whom he had to give up. But Canada was his pride and joy. He would not see it fall before his very eyes in a useless attempt. He would end it swiftly.

One fact remained. He would fight against his own flesh and blood to save him.

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><p>"Then EXPLAIN it to me!" His shout is audible. He screams across the invisible, undefended barrier. He does not understand. He cannot. He still has not.<p>

Canada glares at him with unfathomable venom. His brother is stupid, his brother cannot comprehend the pain he has undergone living with a wretched doppelganger.

He never will, unless the task is performed.

"ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME? PUT THE GODDAMN GUN DOWN, NOW!"

He is listening, but he does not comply. Instead, his finger plays with the trigger of the gun, aimed at the other's chest.

America glares back, his own gun positioned in the exact same way.

"I'm warning you…"

A shot echoes in the monochrome field.

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><p><strong>Yeah... okay. Before you comment, I just have to say that yes, I did look up debates of people on WWIII (if possible) because I got interested it in this morning before reading this fic. When I did read it, BOOM, muse comes.<strong>

**As a note, I want to say that I am not doing this to be bashed, about how unlikely it is that Canada and America will fight, or about which side takes which, blah, blah. This is purely fictional and as was mentioned above, is based on a certain existing fanfic.**

**However, I would appreciate some comments about this. A friendly debate is not something I am opposed to, but flaming about the topic is not. So please, try to keep it friendly, and thanks for reading! **


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